


The Warlock's Lantern

by Ghostly_Writer



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Angst, Dark Magic, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Manipulation, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology References, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, War, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24321784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostly_Writer/pseuds/Ghostly_Writer
Summary: A prosperous village on the edge of the Nameless Forest and a dreary city at the foot of a hill, separated by crystalline waters of a lake. For hundreds of years, members of one family were burdened by the task of ferrying goods and people from shore to shore. Walter is the son of his mother, the next in line to inherit the family business, along with his half-brother Gregory. However, when a dark stranger appears in the village setting up a deadly chain reaction, Wirt discovers the macabre roots of a place he's once called home.
Relationships: Beatrice's Father/Beatrice's Mother (Over the Garden Wall), Lorna & Auntie Whispers, The Beast/Wirt (Over the Garden Wall), Wirt and Greg's mother/Greg's father
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	The Warlock's Lantern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThisBirdWithoutACage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBirdWithoutACage/gifts).



> Enjoy!

A flicker in the dark.

A pale, slender hand placed the rusted candleholder on the nightstand and brushed the boy's tangled brown hair. The dawn had just begun to stretch its strings of light towards the frigid earth, when she received an impromptu call from her neighbor and friend. The visit from the dark-skinned woman and her daughter was followed by tears of misery and the news that the respectable carrier and postman of their village fell ill and took to his bed with a fever. And what a dark piece of irony it was, that the wife and daughter of a letter carrier brought a message of his, as she believed, inevitable death. It _was_ early October after all, she mused sadly, looking at the foggy windows. The first snow would soon cover their lands. As the wife and mother of the only ferrymen in their village, she had to notify at least one of them, and send them off to their boats, to ferry the desperate women across the lake so they could find a physician in the city who might be able to help. Her husband's ferry was regarded as a large vessel, capable of carrying passengers and cargo simultaneously, whilst her son's simple, agile wooden boat could carry half as much, but a lot faster. 

So it was only natural that she banged on the nightstand, startling her son awake. He flinched, opening his disoriented hazel eyes, eyes that were virtually identical to her own green ones with hues of amber radiating from the pupil. Wirt groaned, rolled over on the mattress and put his palm to his chest, sensing his thundering heartbeat.

"Was it necessary?" he croaked after a moment, releasing a deep breath, still shaken from the abrupt awakening. He knew his mother won't disturb his sleep without a reason, which could only mean one thing: he had a soul to ferry. Whoever it was, they needed immediate service, for it surely was urgent enough to wake him up before the day had dawned.

"You have a mission, Wirt. Get dressed, I've put warm water for you in the washroom," Mrs. Eleanor Sherwood informed, allowing her son the privacy to stretch his muscles and unbutton his nightshirt. As she was leaving, she casually threw in a comment that made Wirt's fingers falter around the smooth buttons. "Sara's eagerly awaiting your arrival. It'd be rude to let one's sweetheart tarry, don't you think?" the door creaked, slammed shut.

His face was burning a soft tint of pink, his angular jaw stained with the evident color of bashfulness when the shirt finally, slowly, slipped past his bony shoulders. He freed his limbs from the white cotton sleeves, warmed by the heat of his body. The morning chill of medial autumn brushed his skin, prickling with goosebumps, and a shiver ran through his body. The thought of _Sara_ sitting downstairs, waiting for him, made him somewhat nervous, sparkling with energy he didn't possess, feeling emotions he couldn't quite place inside his heart. Alas, she didn't have the time for his languid movements or the unforgivable lethargic state of his mind. He planted his bare feet onto the cold hardwood and it cleared his mind in some way, reminded him of the sensation of standing, waist-deep, in the icy waters of the Lake, his arms straining against the wood of the boat that was resisting the pressure of his hands. Some unknown force, or deity, observing his misfortune, encouraged the lake to strike the hull with a gentle wave, propelling the vessel towards the shore, helping at once the 13-year-old teenager in his task. Truthfully, he was a lanky youth, scrawny and puny, and the task of docking a fifteen feet long boat for the first time was not an easy feat. 

Five years later it seemed like the most natural thing in the entire world.

He dressed quickly, firstly putting on woollen socks, black trousers wide at the leg for simpler maneuvering, a white cotton shirt and lastly, his favorite item - a navy sweater, made from soft, highly insulating wool, with a plainer, tighter weave around the neck and base of the sweater. He shoved roughly the trouser-legs inside the leather boots, reaching below his knees and tied them in a tight knot, to prevent water accidentally filling them. He fetched his hooded leather jacket, snuffed out the candle and closed the door to his bedroom. 

The water in the metal basin had cooled by the time he dressed and entered the washroom, but he didn't mind its refreshing quality. Rinsing, brushing and spitting. Pulling the plug from the bottom of the bowl and letting the water drain down the pipes. Same action, same motion, every morning. His well-liked routine.  
Only once he was stepping downstairs did he notice, mortified, that he forgot to brush his hair. He was manually untangling his hair when he entered the kitchen and stopped in his tracks, frozen. This day sure would mark a turning point in his life, he contemplated, weeks later. It certainly never felt the same in their village after _that_ happened.

Mrs. Clara Messenger and her daughter Sara were sitting behind the sturdy kitchen table, laden with empty tea cups, butter, slices of bread, raspberry and plum jam. Mrs. Clara's physique and skin tone were a topic of many discussions in the village when Mr. Messenger presented his fiancée to the elders after delivering particularly important news to the officials in a faraway city in the Forest. Her dark visage and hands contrasted greatly with the light dress she was wearing. Nevertheless, her beauty was unparalleled, and her humble and caring nature won over the hearts of the villagers. Her daughter shared her mother's brown skin, big expressive dark eyes and soft black hair, cut to graze her shoulders. The Messenger family were close friends to the Sherwoods and their only neighbors, since both lived at the outskirts of the village and its lands. And seeing as how the matriarch of the small family and his best friend were crying and holding each other's hands, Wirt couldn't contain his worried expression and straightened his back.

"Blesseth day today, isn't it?" he blurted, anxiety and hesitation forcing the words out of his mouth, like a broken music box that would not stop playing even as the lid was closed.

His mother raised an eyebrow at him and took the tea cups to the counter.

"As much as I would like to answer accordingly, Wirt, I fear this day is far from being blessed. My husband fell ill. The fever consumed his mind so fast... only yesterday he was a healthy man, and today he couldn't even form two coherent sentences," her voice was hushed, but the words vibrated with fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of losing a loved one. "We immediately called the doctor, but he refused to help. He... can you believe he dared to say that there's no hope for Jeremy?! That he's likely to succumb to this damned curse, to this Evil?! He didn't even want to try, to check his state!" by the end of her tirade, her voice became an angry cry, tears spilling anew down her cheeks. Sara's face twisted in a grimace of pain and she coiled her arms around her shoulders. Eleanor only shook her head, pitying her friend's tragic circumstances. Or disapproving of the doctor's actions and lack of professionalism, Wirt couldn't quite guess his mother's thoughts.

"Clara, my son will ferry you as fast as the winds will let him. Wirt, have a bite and go." 

"No. We'll go now. There's no time to waste," it hadn't taken him half a second to form this decision in his head, the zealous commitment to his job rearing its head and forcing him into the cold waters, into his Whitehall boat. Eleanor opened her mouth to argue that it's foolish and downright impossible to row for fifty minutes with an empty stomach, but Wirt gave her a warning glare.

"Walter," she stretched the vowels of his name, his full name, as she used to do throughout his childhood before scolding him for some mischief he'd caused.

"Mother," he answered, courteous as ever. He's not a child anymore, he makes his own decisions, no matter how insignificant they might be.

She sighed and said, "one moment, please," and scurried to the kitchen cabinets, fishing out a woven basket and filling it with bread, jam, apples and a knife. She then took a dyed piece of linen cloth and covered the basket, finishing her preparations with a knot on top. Wirt scoffed, but accepted the basket with a smile of gratitude.

"Be careful," she whispered, age lines forming around her smiling lips. All of a sudden, she slipped a skipper cap on his head, obscuring the view of the room for a second. He fixed the black, soft, flat-topped cap with a small visor on his wild strands, and raised an eyebrow. "You forgot it yesterday on the kitchen table," she explained.

He turned to the sound of Sara's quiet snicker and announced their departure. Clara thanked his mother for the treat and they left.

God, was it cold. A small cloud of vapour left his mouth as he exhaled deeply, shocked by the wave of cold wind hitting his face. The first beams of warm light peeked from behind the scraggy, ragged outlines of bare trees. These towering carcasses encircled the village, forming a border between the villagers and whatever delved in the depths. The line, however, was ambiguous and vague, and one could only hope they didn't stray away from the path... Wirt grew up on the nightmarish stories his friends used to murmur one another, protected and comforted by the fortress of pillows and blankets they would build, but he learned very early on that every story had a grain of truth in it. Their village was no exception to this rule. _Eternal Garden_ was a prosperous place standing at the entrance to the Nameless Forest, with an abundance of meat, vegetables, fruits and groats accessible to all. They had workshops and skilled artisans that produced goods of the finest quality; blacksmiths and jewellers, bowyers and hunters, weavers and seamstresses, shoemakers and hat makers, glass artists and woodworkers. In this seemingly destitute and poverty-stricken corner of their Kingdom, they somehow never knew hunger or thirst, poverty or maladies. Except for... yes, of course, how could he possibly forget? Wasn't that the reason he was marching now to his boat, ready to assist his friends in times of need? 

The villagers, and everyone concerned, including the rare visitors and travellers that lingered, believed the village to be cursed. The curse hovered heavily above their heads, like a thundercloud, at the start of autumn every year, and its omen was the first snow. 

For, with the first snow, a person would die. 

It occurred unfailingly every year, as naturally as the snow would fall, dictated by the laws of nature, someone would meet one's death, as if picked by the smart hand of the Reaper himself. To say it wasn't a very distressing matter would be an understatement. Children weren't celebrating and running wild in the streets, catching delicate snowflakes and gathering the fallen snow in heaps. Women weren't rummaging in their wardrobes, pulling out stylish gloves and fur coats to clothe themselves for the upcoming evening outside. The air wasn't charged with electrifying happiness, purified by white flakes of snow enveloping the earth.

Instead, the air was marred by the stench of death and ceremonial incense. The grieving widow, widower or their children would lead a slow-moving procession all the way to the crypt beneath the earthly floor, with the coffin hoisted on the shoulders of six strongest men in their village, and the funeral would culminate in one of the ancient chambers. What's more, there was a tacit agreement between the locals: all shall be present, from the youngest brat to the oldest geezer. Wirt whole-heartedly rejected the very fundamental aspects of this "rule", believing that such a premature exposure to the macabre could twist the perception of life and death among children. And he'd been no less adamant when it came to his half-brother attending. His parents had never listened, of course. It just wasn't something that could've been done. It was considered a misdeed on a par with defamation of character or insult to one's skills and family. As the years went by, Wirt began to understand the twisted motif of this tradition: why, for one whole week, every workshop and store, apothecary, school and market were closed; why, only on the seventh day, they would open, and life will carry on; why they very nearly forced everyone to be present. The answer was quite simple, and yet still not. It was done to honor the deceased, that's first and foremost, but along with it came the notion of honoring the sacrifice of the poor soul. Every year, Wirt couldn't truly brush off the collective sigh of relief that was noticeable, masked and hidden as it was, from their expressions, from the loosening shoulders, from the understanding that _this year_ they avoided the worst, that _this year_ it was someone else's turn to mourn, that _this year_ someone's misfortune would be their shameful fortune. Such was the human nature. 

Perhaps next year, though.

The heels of his leather boots struck the cobblestone road with audible click-clack rapping, as he was guiding the visibly overwhelmed women down the familiar path. The light he so adored was gone from Sara's eyes. He decided it wouldn't be appropriate to initiate a conversation when they were deeply immersed in whatever thoughts they were having, so he let them be. However, they arrived fairly quickly, since the pier was sensibly located at the end of the road, starting all the way up from within the Nameless forest. A carriage or a cart would only follow one route to leave the forest and it would inevitably lead them here. It was exactly for these reasons that they lived on the outskirts of town. The Post House owned by the Messenger family and the Ferry House owned by the Sherwood family. Dave's, Wirt's stepfather, pier had been set a little bit further down the lakeshore. His ship was far larger for their measly dock to accommodate and provide the necessary tools and place to load onto and discharge from. Wirt's dock (he damn-well earned it to call it his) was T-shaped and granted access to two forms of "transport": the fifteen feet long boat or the raft. The raft was used to ferry horse drawn carriages and carts, and to this day it still made him chuckle when a blue blood on a fancy coach would stare disbelievingly, having trouble to comprehend how this structure could possibly ferry a cab of considerable size and mass. It was rather shabby, he had to admit. And, really, the image of a stack of timber, polished to obtain a flat surface, ferrying a work of art was very amusing and presented a great mystery as to how it was capable to hold such weight. Yet, Wirt had long ago abandoned the task of solving the riddle that was the entire existence of his village. By this point, he just went along with whatever curious event happened first.

He stepped away from the narrow lane, crossing to the pebbled shoreline. At last, they reached the crystalline waters of the lake, and its specular surface could've been easily mistaken for a mirror if one were to stick one's face in front of it. Wirt hunched down to cup himself a mouthful of freshwater and drank it in one single gulp. The wind beckoned the waves to lap at his boots and he couldn't deny himself the quiet pleasure to observe his domain for a lone moment. He straightened from his position and was startled by a tender hand squeezing his own, the feeling of two metal coins clashing with the warmth of smooth skin. Frankly, he had anticipated their desire to follow through with the tradition of paying the ferryman two silver coins, but he would've never accepted that while still staying in his right mind. That's why he turned to face the girl with an exasperated frown on his face and nimbly freed his arm from her hold, keeping the coins in her palm.

"I will never accept that," he said firmly, leaping on the dock while she hurriedly scrambled for words and excuses. With one practiced movement of the rope, he pulled the boat closer to the dock and swiftly jumped in, extending an arm towards the blushing girl. "I won't take payment from someone who needs my help. I-I... won't accept it from you."

She shared an incredulous look with her mother and pursed her lips, remaining in a state of disbelief even as she pocketed the money and grabbed his hand. The boat rocked dangerously when she hopped inside, and something about her impatience reminded him of that of an excited child waiting to be taken on a trip. Only this trip had much more sorrowful objectives. 

He helped the mother next, untying the cleat hitch from the dock and tossing the end of the rope connected to the cleat on the bow inside his boat. He had been perfecting his skills for many years now, and could most probably secure and untie the knots in complete darkness and heavy fog. Which had actually happened to him, time after time, reminiscent of his misty return to the village one morning. It was late autumn, and the forming fog condensed thickly around the boat when he realized the true extent of their nasty predicament. Neither Wirt nor his companion had brought lanterns or torches to try to diffuse the haziness, and he was blindly rowing ahead, praying to whoever was listening that they'll end up at least as close as one mile to the village. All of a sudden, he spotted an orange orb in the distance. His spirit, alleviated by hope, followed the light. And as he expected, at the end of his bow, he saw his mother's lonely figure, standing on the edge of the dock, holding a bright lantern. Since then, every time she would glimpse the beginnings of a fog, she would come out with her lantern and patiently await his arrival. Sometimes she would send Greg for this mission, and he would catch sight of the frantic movements of the fire, spurred by the frenzied dancing of his restless brother. And when he'd get bored from doing that, he'd start singing, his songs absurd and silly, but far too amusing.

Wirt preferred to remain silent and keep to his thoughts, since he couldn't do much talking anyways due to the physical exertion and his need (and lack therefore) for oxygen. When he wanted to cross as fast as possible the several miles separating the two shores, he would row at an above average speed, which limited his speech and reduced it to undignified puffing and embarrassing panting. The first half an hour of their passage went smoothly, up until the moment Sara voiced her turmoil.

"Mother, I don't believe we'll find a doctor who'd be willing to help us," her tone was morose, saturated with a dejected comprehension of a person who's just realized that not a single soul in this world possessed the ability to reverse the clock, no matter how hard she'd look for them. Mrs. Messenger's eyes widened with raging anger and she promptly smacked her upside the head. Wirt winced in sympathy, for the smack did sound painful. Sara rubbed her nape, desensitized already to cuffs and slaps, having received them her entire childhood. She then locked her eyes with Wirt, an uncharacteristic calculating glint reviving the coals in them. "Think about it: we're coming from a place that they hate, a place where everything seems peaceful and everyone is healthy and doesn't look like a walking-talking skeleton. Why would we be asking for their help if we lived much better than they did?"

"Sara, I beg of you, shut your mouth and stop with this drivel. I don't want to hear a word of it. Don't forget we're talking about your father's well-being here, in case you forgot," Clara's eyes, brimming with unshed tears, had a vulnerable kind of question shining in them, asking Sara why would she say that right now.

Sara, however, continued coldly. "They hate our guts, they're envious that we're doing much better than they are and they will never agree to help us willingly. We represent everything they could have had if not for... well, anyways, the point is, the majority of us live simple yet fine lives, filled with abundance. _They_ have nothing. The small percentage that do get to live better than dogs are generally people issued from noble families or people that had to fight really hard for what they own now. Look at our clothes. Do you think people won't notice that we're from the other side?" she looked expectantly at her mother.

"This is ridiculous; why would any honored physician turn down the opportunity to examine a patient afflicted by this mysterious ailment? I'm sure they're as curious as they're envious," the rational part of her brain cooled down a touch her conflicting emotions, and she levelled her daughter with a patronizing gaze that told the latter to keep her inane theories to herself. But Sara would have none of that.

"You'll see what I'm talking about, ma. After all, I spend more time in the city delivering mail than you do. When was even the last time you set foot there? Before my birth?" Wirt's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, damp with sweat now. Her dry sarcasm put a cheeky grin on his face, welcoming her to go on. But what she did next wiped it off faster than it appeared. "But I do have a favor to ask of you," here, she fully faced him again. "If we don't find one in the city, will you help us?" 

Wait, what?

Her face was sincere and open, and he was acquainted with his friend long enough to know her words were one hundred percent genuine. 

"How would I do that?"

"Have you lost your mind?! What is it with you today? Do you think you can make such outrageous demands just because you're close friends?" they spoke at the same time, but his voice was pitifully overpowered by Mrs. Messenger's booming tone.

"No, mom, I haven't lost my mind, but you should listen. Wirt is the _ferryman_ and the successor to the family business. If his mother resigns, he'll become the new proprietor of the ferries, which means that the city will have to work with him directly. They're too dependent on the aristocrats' patronage and the contracts that are being made between the city officials and the nobles when the latter come to visit their _winter_ and _summer_ residencies in the forest. They must stay on good terms with him, because if not... heh, I'm sure the blue bloods won't be happy to find out they can't quite reach _them_. The lake is absolutely enormous and its shoreline stretches many miles from here in both directions. The easiest way to get to this area is by train to the city and then by boat to the opposite shore. The route from the city to the village by boat is the shortest, since the distance between the two is the shortest in existence, if you check throughout the expanse of the coastline," she finished her explanation with a small smile towards him. Wirt sat dumbfounded, motionless, the boat moving fore and aft by the force of the gentle waves. He was digesting the information she presented him and got the sense that she'd done it on purpose, giving him a bigger bone to chew on after all was said and done. He hadn't thought of that yet, not really, not in this way. And what a plan it was... did she really want him to talk to the mayor? Threaten him maybe? The realization dawned on him, and he found her black eyes the same manner she'd done earlier. The closeness they shared allowed for soundless communication to transpire.

_Is that what you want?_

_Yes_

"Fine," he replied, aloud this time, and continued rowing like nothing out of the ordinary has just took place. Mrs. Messenger spurted with indignation, to the sound of the pair's silent merriment. 

If need be, he'd do it for her. 

The boat floated closer and closer to the dock. He could distinguish already the individual bricks on the walls of his uncle's post house. The windows were dark. Wirt's mood soured considerably, since it meant he'll have to step into the coldness to secure the boat himself, instead of just tossing the blasted rope to his uncle as they usually did. He slowed the movement of his oars, submersed rocky ground underneath the craft drawing clearer, the impossibly vibrant color of turquoise tickling the senses as it mesmerized the spectators and painters alike. Finally, as the timbered pillars of the dock were at arm's length, he put the oars aside, gripping firmly the hull's framework, and launched himself above the edge using one hand, landing with a splash in the shallow waters. Sara kindly handed him the mouldering rope and he made fast the ship with a cleat hitch. A cleat was a handy invention in the form of a T-shaped piece of metal attached to the boat or the dock, to which ropes were tied. Firstly, he made a full wrap around the base of the contraption, then took the rope to the far "horn" and looped it, taking the ends again to the front and passing it around the other horn, forming a figure eight. He repeated the same motion few more times under the inquisitive eyes of Sara, pulling the tag and completing the hitch. He then climbed onto the dock, the boards groaning under his weight as he helped the two women up. 

He was stunned by the tight hug from Sara, while her mother thanked him for his job. Returning the loving expression of affection was fairly easy, despite the burning tips of his ears and the meaningful smile from Clara, who turned to leave the shore.

"Don't forget what we agreed upon," she whispered, nuzzling the collar of his sweater. He instinctively covered her with his coat, shielding from the penetrating morning air. In spite of holding her so close to his heart, of patting her back and soft hair, he couldn't halt the involuntary reflex that shocked his bones into pushing her away when he understood the impropriety and wrongness of the situation. She was probably doing that because she was extremely vulnerable at the moment, and needed an anchor in the stormy ocean, a lifeline. He couldn't "use" her friendship like that when she was so lost and frightened of the future. Or perhaps, he was just scared that maybe, just maybe, his feelings could be reciprocal... NO! "Everything's alright, Wirt?" she widened her eyes, puzzled at his behavior.

"Yes, of course, don't worry. Your mom must be waiting though, you should get going already," he said apologetically, nudging her forwards. Her face softened at once, and she waved, rushing ahead. 

Wirt observed the retreating feminine figures with trepidation, replaying the conversation over and over again. Blowing a wisp of smoke, he angled to catch the deposited wicker basket and shuffled towards his uncle's house.

John Sherwood was an interesting character, for sure. Contrary to the villager's crudeness, uncouth primitive manners and disheartening habits, John stood out amongst them as the most enlightened and open-minded person Wirt had met in their ranks. He was well-read and well-educated, carrying an infuriating amount of faith in the knowledge he possessed. He knew more than he ever revealed, never once slipping in a word he didn't quite mean, leaving him tangled in a ball of questions every time they conversed. His uncle was the one who first introduced him to poetry and the art of versification, encouraging along the way and mentoring on the various poetic devices. Sometimes, they would compose a sonnet; other times, one of them would draft a couplet, and the other one would have to finish it or complete it, trying to retain the stylistic originality, which was especially exigent considering the language of a poet who's been composing for longer than he's been alive.

His mother was dearly loved and appreciated by John, who was five years her senior. He stepped away from his rightful claim to the family business after his betrothed was afflicted overnight by the curse. It started one gloomy, rainy Saturday. She collapsed, febrile and unconscious, her heart rate barely perceptible. Such were the symptoms of a person affected by the curse.

She perished on Monday, at the close of day. Her name was Diana. The snow, as if out of spite, as if gloating that it managed to harvest a soul the color of spring, kept falling and covering the coffin with heavy burden, entombing the memories of her before her body.

No different from her namesake, Diana was a skilled huntress; her aim impeccable, her spirit rebellious. She was a young woman at the peak of her brilliant youthful radiancy and healthy, strong shape, her heart beating hard for her beloved ferryman, his uncle. He had vague recollection of the times she used to visit their house, those days when his own father had still been alive, but he was too young to remember anything of value about her temper. All the visual images he could piece together told him she had hair the color of maple syrup under direct sunlight and the widest smile he'd seen until the birth of his brother. Several months later, his father followed her too. The circumstances of the tragedies were differing in every aspect, but both were sudden and torturous in that they happened too unexpectedly, too soon. His family sank in the deepest state of grief, and Wirt closed his eyes, cutting off the world to regain his senses before his heart bled out in the form of tears for his torn family. He decided he would not think about it again while visitng his uncle, but he couldn't stop his automatic thoughts when it came to her. It was still painfully obvious Diana was the only woman John will ever love.

After her death, John left the village, swearing to never step foot again on their lands. And he followed through with his vow, to this day.

Wirt paused in front of the door, thinking it unwise to wake up the old man at this hour of the day. Weighing down the very real possibility of staying outside in the freezing cold, Wirt banged as hard as he could. The dry skin on his knuckles instantly sent a jolt of pain up his arm, and he hissed, turning his hand and staring, irritated, at the cracks in his skin, blood pooling in the micro tearings. The texture of his skin looked like that of a tree bark, same circling deep lines, same patterns. It wasn't like that this morning, he thought, and now it looked as if he put it in some sort of toxic substance wrist deep, and then fished out his hand to see the horrific results of his experiments. He put his right hand down, preparing to knock with his left, when the door opened with a grating sound. He smiled brightly.

"Wirt?" his uncle's rustling, deathly cold voice, stormy grey eyes on a pale, bearded face in the gap perturbed him slightly, for whatever unknown reason his immediate reaction was to flee as fast and as far away from where he was standing. In this one short instant, his uncle looked like a stranger, an altogether unfamiliar entity. Some part of this bizarre compulsion must have shown in his features, smile sliding to the side, because John's perceptive gaze dropped to his statuesque form and dilating pupils, and he broadened the gap in the doorway, revealing his entire body, subconsciously to Wirt baring himself for possible attack, and thus soothing his frizzled nerves. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

Wirt came to his senses, blinking twice, and dumbly lifted up his basket. "Breakfast?"

John sighed, turning and motioning for him to enter. Wirt tried to close the door as gently as he could, but the wind slammed it in his face, ruining the serene atmosphere of the house. Unlike his own wooden hut, John's was built from blocks of bricks, adjacent to a horse stable. The main room of the first floor was meant to be a waiting room of sorts, where guests and customers could rest in cushy armchairs, and during the long winters, warm up their bones in front of the fireplace. John led him to the kitchen, taking the basket from his feeble hands, undoubtedly noticing the beads of dried blood on his knuckles because his next gesture was to go through each of his cabinets, finding a clean pure-white fabric and sinking it into a jug of water. Wirt relaxed into the firm yet gentle hands, wrapping the cold cloth around his knuckles. He noticed the kettle was already steaming. Had his uncle been staying awake all night? He scrutinized him with a disapproving look, finding no signs of fatigue or insomnia, but he knew that he was definitely awake when they've arrived. And what bothered him even more, he was doing so in complete darkness, not one candle lit in the vicinity, or anywhere for that matter.

"Were you asleep? If I woke you up, I'm sorry," he tried to show nonchalance, to forget that vision, when John finished his work and fixed him with a long stare. He then pointedly looked at the steaming teapot and back at him.

"As I'm sure you've already guessed, I wasn't. What happened?" he took two teacups, filled them to the brim with fragrant tea, its strong odor teasing Wirt's nose in the closed space, and began to unpack the contents of Eleanor's package. Wirt sat down uneasily, knowing how John despaired every year after hearing that once again they lost to the curse that took his fiancée.

He cleared his throat and began the tale as old as the Nameless Forest.

**Author's Note:**

> I gifted this work to the author ThisBirdWithoutACage because her story "The Horned King" inspired me to start my very own first story. Thank you for an interesting read and plot.
> 
> The first chapter is the embodiment of literary rambling, because the draft of the plot looks way different from what I ended up writing. All will be revealed as the plot goes on though, so don't worry, I have a long tale to tell. Hope you will help me improve and if you have any criticism, my dear readers, feel free to share them in the comments.
> 
> This story has Human!Beast and I can't wait to introduce him to you.


End file.
